


Year of the Cat

by shell



Category: Captain Marvel (Marvel Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Death Fix, M/M, Phil gets turned into a cat, Tentacles, flerkens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 02:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: The cat was a short-haired, light grey tabby with a few white markings--a cat you might walk right past without noticing, but once you did notice…. "Hey, you clean up pretty good," Clint said. He could almost swear the cat preened at the words, sticking his head up at a regal angle. Then he wrinkled up his nose and sneezed, shaking his head in annoyance, and Clint laughed for the third time in as many minutes.





	Year of the Cat

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly unbetaed, in part because I got too impatient to post it, so if you notice any errors, feel free to point them out! 
> 
> Thanks to Ralkana & Celticas for letting me bounce ideas off and for the cheerleading, along with some other folks on Twitter & Tumblr.
> 
> Yay me, I finally posted something new!

_Don't bother asking for explanations_  
_She'll just tell you that she came_  
_In the year of the cat_

It wasn't that Clint didn't like cats. He liked cats just fine--cats were awesome, especially lions and tigers. 

(Not bears, though. Clint was not fond of bears, as bears did not tend to be fond of him. Especially bears in Siberia and Outer Mongolia.)

But cats were awesome, no question. If he encountered a friendly one, he'd definitely take the time to give them a scritch and let them rub up on his legs or whatever, and he flat out adored Fury's cat, Goose. It was just that, when it came down to it, if you'd asked him, he'd have to say he was more of a dog person. Hence, the presence of Lucky in his life. Lucky, who he was currently missing, because his dog was apparently no longer _his_ dog, but one he shared custody of with Katie, who was hanging out with said dog in California. 

Lucky wasn't the only one he was missing, of course, but somehow missing Lucky made missing Coulson even worse. And missing Coulson had already left him broken for going on six months now. So maybe that's why, when he woke from a nap to find a soaking wet, bedraggled, loudly meowing cat of unknown provenance on the fire escape outside his apartment, he opened the window to let it in. 

The cat immediately took a leap straight into his arms, wrapping its front paws around his neck (somehow without sinking its claws through Clint's thin t-shirt, which made him wonder if it had been declawed) and sticking its cold, wet nose to the skin under his chin, alternating rough licks of its tongue with shaky meows. 

"Hey, hey, you're okay," Clint murmured, leaning over to close the window. He carried the cat into the bathroom and grabbed the towel hanging over the door, grimacing a little as he realized it had been a couple of days since he'd showered. It wasn't like the cat would care, though; it probably just made him smell more interesting. He wrapped the cat up in the towel. When he went to set it down, it tried to jump up into his arms again, so he gave up and dried it best as he could while holding it. Holding _him,_ it turned out--the cat had a set of quite intact balls covered in short grey fur. 

He spent a fraction of a second worried about spraying--one of Simone's kids had brought home a tom cat once, and it had not turned out well--but then decided he didn't care. The cat was still shivering, even though it was mostly dry by now, and it was still letting out shaky meows and licking his chin, although it had also started to purr a little. He kept talking to it as he dropped the towel in the (overflowing) hamper, carried the cat into the living room, and sat down on the couch. 

"What am I gonna do with you, kitty?" he asked. The cat responded by butting the top of his head up against the bottom of Clint's chin so hard it made his teeth click, purring loudly and kneading his paws, claws present but sheathed, on Clint's chest. "It's okay, kitty," he said, rubbing his stubbled cheek against the top of the cat's head. "It's okay. I've got you. You're okay."

He didn't realize he was crying (an unfortunately familiar occurrence, these past couple of months; his therapist said it showed he was making progress, but Clint wasn't so sure) until the cat lifted his head and started licking at his neck and cheeks. "Shit, sorry," he said, then, "what the fuck am I doing, apologizing to a cat?" and started to laugh. It was the first time he'd laughed in a long time; he hadn't even spoken to anyone since Tony's latest attempt to get him to move in, must have been nearly a week ago. It didn't sound like his normal laugh, the chuckles that Coulson's dry wit was always pulling out of him. It sounded like it hurt. Which it did, but it was a good kind of hurt, like going to PT after one of his endless injuries. 

The cat meowed, putting a paw against his face, then leaned in to lick his nose. He laughed again, shaking his head, and sat back to take a closer look at the animal on his lap. The cat was a short-haired, light grey tabby with a few white markings--a cat you might walk right past without noticing, but once you did notice…. "Hey, you clean up pretty good," Clint said. He could almost swear the cat preened at the words, sticking his head up at a regal angle. Then he wrinkled up his nose and sneezed, shaking his head in annoyance, and Clint laughed for the third time in as many minutes. The cat was magic, Clint decided, if it was making him laugh like this. Just like when he was waiting on Lucky at the vet's, he knew there was no way he'd be doing the responsible thing and taking the cat to a shelter. This was his cat now. 

"Guess I'm gonna have to come up with a name for you," he said. The cat let out a long, expressive meow full of vowel sounds. "Wow, sounds like you have Opinions about names," Clint said, and the cat head-butted him decisively before meowing again. 

He looked at the cat again. The cat had beautiful blue eyes that stood out from those soft grey stripes and white chin, and Clint swallowed hard as he realized just who the cat reminded him of. 

There was no way he could name the cat Phil, though, or even Peter or Patrick or any of Phil's other aliases. It would hurt too much. "How about 007?" The cat yowled. 

"Bond?" Another yowl. 

"Mr. Kitty?" The cat hissed. 

"Spot? Pip? Captain Claws? Fancy-pants?" This time the cat outright growled, and Clint couldn't help laughing again. 

"Okay, okay, how about Agent?" Clint asked, his voice catching a little as he said it. The cat sighed and licked Clint's chin. 

"Agent it is," Clint said, forcing himself to smile at the cat. His cat. 

Shit, he hoped Lucky didn't get jealous. And that the tuna he vaguely remembered buying was still in the cupboard. And unexpired. Did tuna expire?

"No, I swear to God, Nat, he's the best cat ever. You have to come over and meet him." Agent purred in Clint's lap, and Clint smiled and scritched under his chin. 

"I suppose I could," Natasha said. She sounded dubious, but Clint knew it was just because she was worried about him. 

"Did I tell you he uses the toilet? He balances himself up on the toilet seat--he doesn't even use the litter box I bought. And he loves pizza just as much as Lucky does."

"The only one who likes pizza as much as Lucky does is you."

 _And Phil,_ Clint thought. The evenings when Coulson had come over to hang out, eat pizza, and watch something--Dog Cops, or something in one of their extensive movie collections, or even one of his awful reality shows--had been more precious to him than Coulson could've ever guessed. 

"I'm not calling to talk about your propensity for adopting strays," Natasha said. "Fury's called a meeting."

"He has?" Clint said. "First I'm hearing about it."

"That's because you never check your email," Nat said. She sounded annoyed, but Clint knew better. "Tomorrow, 9 sharp, at the Tower."

"What sort of a meeting is this?" Clint asked, frowning.

"He wants all of us, and you know everyone but you is living here now."

"There's a reason I don't check my email," Clint said. "Also, Thor's not living there."

"Only because he's still on Asgard," Natasha said. "You don't have to stay here full time, you know. You can keep your low-rent apartment and still come enjoy the perks here sometimes."

"It's not low-rent if you own the building," Clint said. "It's _no-_ rent. For me, anyway." And sometimes for the tenants, when Clint forgot to collect it.

"Whatever, slum-lord," Natasha said. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Hey," Clint protested, but she'd already hung up. "Maybe I should bring you to the meeting," he said to Agent, who'd fallen asleep. 

"Mrrow?" the cat said, lifting his head. 

"Never mind, buddy," Clint said, smooching him between his ears.

That night he dreamed of seeing Loki kill Coulson, of holding Coulson in his arms as he died. He woke up to the cat headbutting and pawing gently at his face. He could feel Agent purring as he sobbed out his grief, saying God knew what through the tears, so grateful to not be alone.

"…what?" 

Clint couldn't hear his own voice over the pandemonium that had broken out in the conference room after Fury and the weird guy, Strange (and wasn't that an appropriate name), said what they'd come there to say. He wasn't sure whether to blame his hearing aids or something else for his inability to comprehend anything anyone had said after Fury mentioned Coulson's body.

"Excuse me, what?" he tried again. 

Because what he thought he might have just heard--that Fury had kept Coulson's body on ice for 6 months, trying to find a way to revive him, that…wasn't that unbelievable. It sounded like something Fury would do, even if it meant the grave Clint visited every so often was empty. But then there was something about Coulson's body disappearing suddenly and mysteriously, and that Strange guy had said something about lines and eyes of amaretto and transmogrification, which Clint was pretty sure was a Harry Potter spell, but the guy hadn't exactly made it easy to read his lips, so who the fuck knew.

"What?" he asked Natasha, who had been staring at both Fury and Strange by turns but was the only one not saying anything. She was also grasping his hand so tightly he could barely feel his fingers.

"So you're telling me," Tony said slowly--Clint had apparently regained the ability to understand words, at least--"that there's a chance Coulson is alive again?" 

Clint jerked in his chair, pressing his lips together to keep from letting another "what" slip out, this one at a higher volume. 

"That's exactly what we're telling you, Stark," Fury said, and Clint had to put his head between his knees and breathe for a moment. 

By the time he stopped seeing spots and sat back up, the conversation had shifted into what, exactly, Coulson might have transformed into, with Tony saying he'd put even odds on a filing cabinet.

"Could he really be a filing cabinet?" Clint asked, feeling desperate. How many filing cabinets must there be in the city? In the world?

"Something _alive,"_ Strange said, looking down on Clint like he was an insect. Oh, God, what if Coulson had been transformed into a cockroach? Wait, wasn't there a book about that? 

There was some sort of thought brewing in the back of Clint's mind. He thought it might be a terrible one, so he pushed it aside and tried to pay attention to the conversation. 

"Loki oft turned into a snake when we were young," Thor said thoughtfully, and Clint got the urge to put his head between his knees again, "but that was his own magic, not that of another."

"Is it because of the spear?" Steve asked. 

"We don't know," Hill said. "Maybe."

"Once, when my mother thought I was being immature, she turned me back into a small child," Thor said. "Could such have happened here?"

"It's a possibility," Strange said. "He could also have been turned into a woman, or sent to a parallel dimension."

"How do we find him?" Bruce asked. "Was there any energy signature when he disappeared?"

"What about recordings?" Clint asked, desperate to have something to contribute. "If he was at a SHIELD facility, there must be recordings, right?" He could watch them. He was known for his eyesight; maybe he'd find something they'd all missed. But Fury was shaking his head.

"There's nothing on the recording. We didn't even know the body was missing for several hours; all we could find was a few seconds missing from the recording around 4:30 yesterday afternoon."

"You didn't know he was missing?" Clint only realized how loud he'd spoken when everyone stared at him. 

"That's what I said, Barton." Fury had his "did I stutter" face on, so Clint settled for glaring at him rather than saying anything else.

People started talking in circles after that, so eventually Clint pulled Natasha into his room and just kind of shook in her arms for a while before using the excuse that he had to feed Agent to escape. Tony insisted that Happy drive him home, and Clint didn't have it in him to argue; it was when they were pulling up at his building that the (definitely terrible) thought returned. He must have made some noise, because Happy asked if he was okay.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Rough day."

"You do know it's only 11:45, right?" Happy replied.

Clint waved at him as he headed inside, moving slowly up the stairs as the terrible thought consumed him. It had to be a coincidence, right? Yes, he'd found the cat (or the cat had found him) yesterday around five, but that didn't mean anything. 

He hesitated at his door, leaning his forehead against it. The cat, if it really was a cat, obviously heard or smelled him or something, because a moment later there was a questioning meow, then a paw stuck under the door, waving at him. The cat (that was maybe Phil Coulson) did so with its claws sheathed. Clint thought again about the way the cat used the toilet, and loved pizza and tuna but refused to eat the kibble he got from Simone, and how scared it had been, and how it had never once scratched him. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

The (most likely, really) cat greeted him with a happy meow, rubbing up against his legs and headbutting the fist he held out. "Hey, boss," he said, and the cat immediately looked up and meowed again. 

"C'mon to the couch and let's talk." The cat quickly trotted over and leapt onto the cushion where Coulson used to sit. Clint told himself very firmly not to take that as any kind of sign, even when he sat down and the cat turned to him with an expectant expression.

"Okay," he said. After a few seconds where he didn't say anything else, the maybe-not-a-cat gently put its paw on Clint's forearm. "Yeah, okay," Clint said, taking a deep breath and letting it out again.

"Okay." The cat looked at him. "Not going to say that again, I promise. Jesus fucking Christ, I'm making promises to a cat, who's maybe not a cat, but maybe is, in which case I'm making a total fool of myself, but at least if you're actually a cat, you don't understand me and it doesn't matter if I'm making a fool of myself because no one will ever know."

The cat headbutted his fist again.

"Okay--shit, sorry--I need to ask you some questions," Clint said. The cat--holy shit, did the cat just nod at him? "Did you just nod at me?"

The cat nodded again. 

"Could you shake your head for me?"

The cat gave Clint a look, then deliberately moved his head from side to side.

"I'm going to ask you a math question," Clint said. The tight feeling in his chest that had been there ever since Fury's announcement was either getting tighter or less tight; he couldn’t tell. "I want you to nod your head the right number of times for the answer, okay?"

The cat nodded again.

"Shit, I said okay again," Clint muttered. "Uh, let's make this a problem with a few steps. First, I want you to add 40 to 48." Why did he automatically go to their age difference? "Then, uh, divide that by eight. Then subtract nine, then multiply by two. You got that? Just nod once for yes, or shake your head if you need me to repeat it."

The cat--he was really beginning to think it might be Phil--nodded once, paused, and then nodded four more times. Clint had to think through what he'd said before he could confirm the right answer. 

"Jesus," Clint said.

The cat shook his head. 

It took a second for him to get his mouth to work again. "Phil? Is that you?" he asked, his voice cracking.

The cat--Phil, it really was Phil--nodded again, then moved onto Clint's lap, headbutting his chin and purring loudly. 

For the third time in less than 24 hours, Clint found himself crying while cuddling what appeared to be, but wasn't, a cat.

"A cat," Fury said flatly. 

Clint had talked to Natasha first. Natasha had come over, spoken Russian to Phil, got some appropriate nods and headshakes back, hugged Phil, and insisted they call Fury immediately. Clint had argued for lunch first, and Nat had agreed only because she loved Clint's peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, even if she'd never admit it. Now, post-sandwiches, they had Fury on speaker phone while they sat on the couch. Phil was in the middle.

"Yes, a cat," Nat said, and Phil meowed. 

It sounded like Fury sighed just then, which didn't seem like the kind of thing the director of a mostly-covert agency would do, but he and Phil were really close, so maybe that was why.

"How soon can you get to my office?" Fury asked.

"With Phil?" Clint asked, just to be sure.

"Jesus, Barton, of course with Phil!" That was more like the Fury Clint knew.

"I think we should meet where we met this morning, sir," Natasha said. "The whole team should be there."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Fury answered.

"Why not?" Clint asked. "Natasha's right; they deserve to be there."

There was a pause before Fury said, "The Avengers aren't cleared for this meeting."

"Really, sir? Why not?" Natasha said, beating Clint to it--although he probably would've been less polite. 

"Because I said so, Romanoff," Fury said. 

Phil meowed again--loudly, and repeatedly. 

"Tell that sad excuse for an agent that I don't speak cat," Fury said over the noise. Natasha murmured something he didn't catch.

"I think he's calling in a favor, sir," Clint said. Phil nodded once and meowed again.

"If I do this, Coulson, you'll owe _me_ a favor. A big one. Understand?"

Phil meowed and nodded.

"He understands, sir," Natasha said.

"Fine. Tell Stark we'll need the conference room again at 4."

Once they'd hung up, Natasha looked at Clint. "Go take a shower. I'll call Stark."

"Better have him send Happy again," Clint said, getting up and stretching. "Don't think they'd let us take Phil on the subway without a carrier."

Phil meowed in agreement. Clint scritched him on top of the head and went to clean up.

***

When they arrived, Tony, Steve, and Bruce were all waiting outside the conference room. "Where's Fury?" The windows were frosted, so Clint couldn't see what was inside beyond some vague shapes.

"Inside. He said we weren't allowed in, just you two and--is this him?" Tony looked gleeful rather than annoyed, reaching out to take Phil from him.

"No," Clint said. At Tony's look, he clarified: "Yes, this is Phil, and no, you can't hold him." With that he nodded at Natasha to open the conference room door.

Whatever Clint had been expecting from Fury's cryptic description of "them," he hadn't expected a blond woman in a faded Air Force t-shirt and a bitchin' haircut. Oh, and an alien. 

"Reporting as ordered, sir," he said, letting Phil jump gracefully from his arms to the top of the conference table. Phil immediately went to the woman and meowed at her. She gave him a bemused scritch. Next to her was some sort of sci-fi cat carrier. "Is that Goose? Why is she locked up? Why are you in kitty jail, Goosie-girl?" The alien on Fury's other side stared at him, but Clint was secure enough in his masculinity to baby-talk a cat without fear of judgment. Besides, Fury's eye always twitched when he grabbed Goose for some kitty-cuddles instead of paying attention to her owner's leather-coated bad-assitude.

"Well?" Fury asked the alien, who was greyish green and really ugly except for his eyes. Clint reminded himself that Fury and Phil were friends, and Fury wouldn't allow any harm to come to Phil if he could help it. Maybe the alien knew how to transform Phil back?

"Hell if I know," the green guy said. He had an Australian accent, which was much lower on the bizarreness scale than it might have been if Phil hadn't been brought back to life as a cat. "Not getting any closer to that thing than I need to."

"I brought you here to tell me if this is a flerken or not, and you can't?" Fury said. "Don't you have one of those detector things?"

"That detector belonged to that Kree Starforce bloke, not me," the green guy said, glancing at the blond woman like he expected her to magic one up by snapping her fingers. 

"Uh, what's a flerken?" Clint asked as Phil moved from the woman to Fury.

"I don't suppose you could tell us what happened, Cheese?" Fury asked, ignoring Clint.

Phil meowed at length, then sneezed in frustration. Fury reached out absent-mindedly and started petting Phil.

"Goose is a flerken," the woman told Clint. "She looks like a cat, but let's just say there's more to her than meets the eye."

"Director Fury, I don't suppose you'd care to introduce us," Natasha said, eyebrow raised in signature fashion.

"Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton, meet Talos and Carol Danvers, otherwise known as Captain Marvel."

Clint meant to say, "Pleased to meet you," he really did. Instead, he said, "Does Steve know about this other Cap?"

"Who's Steve?" Danvers asked. 

"Rogers. Captain America. Haven't you been watching the news? I know you stay with Maria whenever you can." Fury had that almost fond tone in his voice that Clint had only ever heard him use with Phil.

"Funny, I've never seen her there," Natasha said sharply. Danvers gave her a quizzical look.

"Different Maria," Fury said to both of them. "How's Monica, by the way?"

“She’s great,” Danvers said, smiling. 

"Can we please stop talking about women I've never met who are not here and focus on Phil?" 

Everyone turned to look at Clint. Maybe that had been a little loud. Phil trotted over to him and headbutted his chin.

"I just…he's why we're here, right? To get him back?" Clint looked down at the person in question, still currently a cat, and said, "I mean, don't get me wrong, sir, I'd rather have you back as a cat than still dead, but it's not exactly an ideal scenario. If this were an op you were running, we'd already be at plan E, you know?"

Phil nodded and licked Clint's nose. Plan E came before Plan F, which was what Clint usually referred to as the "we're fucked" plan. His definition of that had been turned on its end six months earlier, or he might have said they were there now.

"Well, that's just adorable," Tony said as he came through the door. "I never in a million years would've guessed I'd ever call Agent Coulson adorable, but here we are."

"Stark, I thought I told you to wait outside," Fury said. Steve, Bruce, and Pepper followed Tony into the room; Pepper made a beeline for Phil, who abandoned Clint to grace her with his presence.

"And I might have, but someone who showed up might be able to help," Tony said. "JARVIS, you told him how to get here from the roof, right?"

"Indeed, sir," JARVIS said as the door opened again and Thor strode in.

"Well-met, my friends," he exclaimed. "Heimdall said that you had need of me. It took some time, but I persuaded the king my father to speed up the rebuilding of a small section of the Bifrost."

"Glad you could make it, Thor," Steve said. He and Thor exchanged manly hugs, which started a chain reaction that didn't end until Thor had hugged everyone on the team. It was only then that he turned towards the conference table.

Phil walked over towards him, tail up and quivering, meowing loudly.

"Son of Coul? What is this mischief, or is it miracle?" Thor sat down heavily--Clint suspected that it was only the reinforcements Tony had built into the floor that kept it from shaking--and faced Phil.

"You can understand him?" Clint asked, more than a little desperately.

"Of course," Thor said, like it was of no consequence whatsoever that _he could talk to Phil._

"Don't hold us in suspense, Treebeard--what's he saying?"

Phil sneezed in Tony's direction, and Thor laughed. "He does not think much of your name for me," he said. "But I have forgotten my manners--who are these brave warriors?"

Fury did the introductions again; by the time he'd finished, Phil had jumped onto Clint's lap, putting his front paws onto the table so he could see everyone. 

"Captain Mar-Vell, I have heard much of your prowess," Thor said. "It is an honor to meet you."

"Call me Carol," Danvers answered. "I've heard a lot about you, too. And about your brother."

"And you, sir," Thor said, ignoring the reference to Loki and turning to Talos. "It has been quite some time since I have encountered an undisguised Skrull. Are you perhaps a friend of SHIELD, or only of Phillip Coulson?"

"The answer to that would be both, I suppose," Talos said, "but I'm here because of that." He pointed at Goose.

"Why has this creature been caged?" Thor demanded as soon as he saw Goose. "Do you not realize what you have here?"

"What we have is a flerken," Talos said. "That's why it's in a cage--surely you know what they're capable of?"

"I do," Thor said. "We of Asgard have had a treaty with her species for over a thousand of Midgard's years. Captain--Carol--would you please let her out? I wish to speak with her about the Son of Coul."

Clint was very confused, but that sounded like it might be a good thing, that Goose--who was a flerken, not that anyone had yet explained what a flerken was to his satisfaction--maybe might have some information about how Phil got turned into a cat. Or maybe a flerken. Who was also Phil. 

He looked up when he realized that, after meowing at Thor, Goose had come to him--or rather, to Phil. "Hey, Goosie-girl," he said, holding out his finger for her to sniff. "It's good to see you. Can you help Phil?" She rubbed up against his finger and purred.

"I believe she can, Hawkeye," Thor said. "She is the one responsible for his current state, and she has told me that she has the means to help him regain his previous form. She advises you to step back from the table. Dr. Banner, my friend, you may wish to step outside."

"Uh, okay, I can do that," Clint said, carefully getting up and putting Phil on the chair, hearing the door close softly behind him.

Phil and Goose touched noses.

And then _tentacles came out of Goose's mouth, engulfed Phil, and disappeared back into Goose._

"What the fuck?" Clint shouted. He wasn't the only one.

"It's all right, everyone," Thor said, holding his hands out. "Flerkens are only able to transform within the pocket universe they carry inside. In only a few moments, Goose will return the Son of Coul to us, unharmed."

They all stared at Thor, then stared at Goose. Goose burped. They stared some more.

"Nothing's happening," Clint said, his chest tight. "Why isn't anything happening? What if she just…what if she just ate Phil?"

Goose meowed. 

"Ah, I understand. Thank you, my lady flerken," Thor said, bowing slightly. "She has informed me that, as Agent Coulson was naked when she first found him, he will of necessity be naked when she returns him to us. She believes that he would prefer not to be seen without clothing."

Oh. _Oh._ Clint's face warmed as he heard Steve say, "No, Tony."

"But--"

"No, Tony," Natasha said, and Clint knew that would be the end of it. Even Tony wouldn't dare Natasha's wrath.

"Clothes!" he said. "I have some. In my room. I'll go get them!"

He fled.

Clint's "room" at Stark Tower wasn't really a room, of course. It was a full apartment, bigger and more luxurious by far than his loft in Bed-Stuy. But he'd discovered early on that calling it his room annoyed Tony, so he'd kept doing so until it became habit. 

He didn't keep much there, but he knew he had some work-out gear, a pair of jeans, some sweats, and a few t-shirts. They all lived in the enormous chest of drawers in the bedroom, mostly tossed into whatever drawer he opened at random when he washed them. Tony's bots could take care of any dirty laundry, but while Clint allowed them to handle his uniform, he drew the line at his underwear. 

Jesus, Phil was going to be wearing his clothes. Including his _underwear._ Which was admittedly something he had thought about before, in the context of oft-repeated fantasies of sharing his life with the man, but this was different. It was a good thing no one was able to see him, though, because now he was _definitely_ blushing.

Natasha would probably be able to tell, even 10 floors away, but that was okay. He didn't have any secrets from Nat.

He went through the breathing exercise his SHIELD therapist had forced him to learn. It worked about as well as it did for the nightmares, which is to say that it helped just enough that he could regroup, gather some clothing--including underwear, because Phil Coulson did not go commando; Clint definitely would've noticed if he ever had--and head back downstairs. 

"JARVIS?"

"The flerken has not yet produced Agent Coulson, Agent Barton," JARVIS answered.

"Thanks, J."

When he got there, everyone except for Goose and Phil was outside the conference room door. "The lady Goose asked us to step out," Thor explained. "You are permitted entry, however."

Clint swallowed hard, nodded, and opened the door. As he reached out to put the clothing on the table, Goose meowed once and started retching in the unmistakable way of cats. Clint knew he should leave, but his feet were rooted to the floor, and he was no more able to look away than he was to move.

He hoped Phil would forgive his being there for this.

He hoped Phil would forgive him for a lot of things.

"Holy shit," he said faintly a moment later. He felt a little light-headed. "Holy shit! Are you okay, sir? That didn't look very comfortable."

"I'm fine," Phil said. "Just a little…slimy. I don't suppose you brought a towel?"

Because Phil was, in fact, covered in blue, shiny slime. Slime which only highlighted his muscles, his chest hair…and the complete lack of a scar on his chest. "Uh," he said.

"I believe there are some bar towels in the cupboard to your left, Agent Coulson," JARVIS said. 

"Thank you, JARVIS," Phil said. When he turned, Clint could see that there was no scar on his back either. He also got a great look at Phil's ass, which he wanted to put his mouth all over, even with the blue slime. 

"Holy shit," he said again. Phil looked at him, and the blue slime had nothing on the blue of his eyes, so warm and welcoming and fond. "I, uh, I should let you get dressed--come out when you're ready; I forgot to get you shoes, sorry, but you wouldn't fit into mine anyway, remember? Because we learned that in Belize that time."

"I remember," Phil said, and he smiled at Clint, a real and true Phil-smile of the type very few people ever got to see. And Clint just didn't know how to handle that smile, especially not combined with the slimy nakedness and oh, right, the things he'd sobbed into Phil-the-cat's fur the other night.

He fled. Again.

Not really, though, because he was accosted by assorted Avengers and others the second he got through the door. 

"Well?" demanded Tony.

"Is he okay?" asked Pepper.

"Report, Agent Barton," said Fury, and that's who he tried to answer.

"Tentacles," he said, arms flailing. "More tentacles. And blue slime. So much slime."

"Coulson has tentacles now?" Bruce said; apparently either no one had filled him in, or he hadn’t been paying attention. He sounded fascinated more than horrified, which Clint wasn't sure how to feel about. 

"No, Goose, the flerken, has tentacles," Clint explained. "Mouth tentacles. Lots of them. Phil's fine. Well, he was covered in blue slime after being puked up by a cat with enormous _mouth tentacles,_ holy shit, I think I need to sit down."

With that, they all trooped back into the conference room, where Phil was tugging Clint's t-shirt over his chest. It stuck a little to the remainder of the blue slime; the bar towels on the table looked like they hadn't been quite sufficient to the task of de-sliming him. He was beautiful.

Goose sat on the table, calmly cleaning her face with her paws.

“So I take it we won?” Phil asked.

Clint more or less collapsed into a chair as pandemonium ruled once more. He thought about turning his hearing aids off, but every once in a while he would catch the soft tenor of Phil's voice. Even if he couldn't understand what he was saying, and usually didn't have the right angle for lip-reading, it was so incredible it made his inevitable headache worth it.

Goose came and availed herself of his lap. Clint thanked her for saving Phil and guessed it was pretty great to be in a flerken’s good graces. She settled in; Clint rested his hand on her back and felt her purring. It was better than any breathing exercise; it was almost as good as that moment just before he took a shot. He let his eyes close, his focus narrowed to the animal on his lap. 

Phil was alive. 

Phil was alive, and he’d come to Clint--or Goose had brought him there; Clint wasn’t sure. Clint had sobbed secrets into his fur, but Phil hadn’t left. Now that he was human again, he’d probably want to talk to Clint about it. The idea didn’t panic Clint the way he thought it should; he knew that Phil would be his friend, no matter what. And even if Phil decided the burden of Clint’s feelings was too much, he’d still be there, alive, in the world, kicking ass armed with tailored suits and unflappability. That was worth any amount of heartache, as far as Clint was concerned.

"Clint?" 

He opened his eyes to Natasha’s concerned expression. "I’m okay," he said, signing it for good measure. 

Clint caught Phil watching them; as soon as he realized Clint was looking, Phil signed, "thank you."

Clint smiled and nodded. It looked like Fury was getting ready to take Phil back to headquarters, so he said his goodbyes to everyone, including Goose, and went home. He wasn't surprised that Natasha followed him, but finding Goose in his apartment was unexpected. "Hey, Goose," he said, bending down to pet her. "I guess flerkens can teleport along with everything else, huh? Do you like pizza? I bet you like pizza."

He fell asleep on the couch with Nat on one side and Goose on the other, the apartment lit only by the credits of "The Cat from Outer Space," which had appeared (along with a few other movies about cats) as suddenly on his DVR as Goose had on his couch. When he woke the following morning, he was alone. Nat had left a note on his fridge demanding his presence at Stark Tower for brunch. He figured it was even odds Phil would be there, so he went.

The Tower was Phil-less, but Steve was making waffles. Natasha was handling the bacon and sausage, Bruce was putting some quiches in the oven, and Pepper was in charge of the guaranteed strawberry-free fruit salad, so Clint stepped in and started on the pancakes. Once everything was set up, buffet-style, he filled up his plate and sat at his accustomed place at the table. Thor sat down next to him, and for a while Clint tried to keep up with him and Steve in the number of plates of food, until he gave up with a groan. 

He moved over to one of the enormous couches, glad that team brunch didn't have a dress code. Even his loosest pair of sweatpants felt a little tight, which led him inevitably to thoughts of how Phil had looked in his clothing the day before. He was smiling a little wistfully at the memory when Thor came and joined him again.

"I would speak with you, Clint," Thor said. 

"Okay," Clint said reluctantly. Thor had that kicked puppy expression on that usually indicated an uncomfortable apology regarding his adopted brother. They'd had a few conversations like that before Thor and Loki left, and Clint wasn't eager for another. 

"I am sorry," Thor said. When Clint grimaced, he held a hand up. "No, it is not of Loki I speak, or at least not directly. I am sorry that I did not know how much you mourned for Agent Coulson until my lady Goose informed me."

By now Clint really should be used to feeling gob smacked, given the last few days, but he was once again left with nothing to say but, "…what?"

"Flerkens are very sensitive to the emotional responses of their chosen companions," Thor said, "but she didn't realize how much you cared for the Son of Coul until she saw you in Fury's office a few weeks ago. She considered it carefully before arriving at the decision to bring him back to you."

"She's the one who brought Phil to my apartment building?" Clint asked. He'd thought maybe Phil had found his way to him on his own.

"Only after ascertaining that he was eager to see you," Thor said, putting his hand on Clint's shoulder.

"I see," Clint said faintly. What the fuck did that mean, "eager to see you"? The confidence he'd had since the day before disappeared. "Thanks, Thor," he added. 

"You are most welcome, my friend," Thor said, then went off in search of more food. 

"I, uh, I think I'm gonna head home," Clint said to no one in particular.

***

He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that Goose wasn't in his apartment when he got there. No Goose, no Lucky. No Phil, whether cat or human. His DVR was filled with Dog Cops and more movies about cats. Sports were out; he'd watched too many games with Phil. He didn't feel like shooting anything; if he had, he would've stayed at the Tower and headed down to the range he pretended not to know Tony built for him. 

He could go for a run, but it was sleeting out, with a prediction for possible snow, and it wasn't that he minded running in the cold, but he didn't feel like dealing with icy streets and people driving like idiots. There were doubtless things he could take care of for his tenants, but that would mean leaving the safe isolation of his apartment.

Heaving a sigh, he got to his feet and went looking for the cleaning supplies Kate and Simone had left under his sink the last time Lucky had the runs. People thought that he never cleaned, but that wasn't true. He just tended to save his cleaning sprees for when doing anything else felt impossible. 

He was just about finished scrubbing out the bathtub when the lights flashed. He stood and went to open the door, grabbing his aids from the kitchen counter on the way, trying to remember if he'd promised Simone he'd watch the kids tonight, or if that was some other day.

It wasn't Simone. "Coulson," he managed to say.

"Hi, Clint."

"Hi."

"Can I come in?" Phil asked after a moment. "I brought dinner. Chinese, since I figured you might need something with actual vegetables in it."

Phil was wearing that small smile of his, the one that said he wanted to be happy but wasn't sure he had earned it quite yet, and the plastic bags dangling from his hands smelled like beef and broccoli, hot and sour soup, egg rolls, and mu-shu pork from Madame Tso's. It was so familiar, so normal, that Clint's eyes were burning as he opened the door wider and gestured Phil inside.

Phil's eyes widened as he took in the relatively pristine state of Clint's apartment and the not-so-pristine state of Clint himself. "I, uh, I should clean up," Clint said, as Phil put his hand on Clint's arm and said his name. "I'm gonna go do that. Make yourself comfortable. Beer's in the fridge." Then he ran up the stairs, because the beer that was in the fridge was Phil's beer, the beer he only ever bought for when Phil came over, the beer he hadn't been able to throw out or give away or even drink, and Phil was in his apartment again, Phil was alive and in his apartment.

He forced himself not to linger in the shower. It wouldn't be polite, what with Phil downstairs, waiting for him. If his eyes were red when he got out, he could blame that on the bleach he'd used to clean with.

If he had to describe Phil's expression when he found him standing in the living room, he'd have to say lost. "Are you okay?" he asked, crossing to stand a few feet away.

"What?" Phil asked. "Oh, yeah, it's just--you got new plates. And maybe a dog? I saw a leash the other day, and I could smell it, I think, but it's not here?"

"Yeah, Lucky's with Katie out in California. She's the one who bought the new plates."

"Katie? Seems like I've missed a lot, these past few months. Is she your new--"

"No, God no--Katie's like 12!" Clint rushed to say. "Kate Bishop. Hawkeye. Remember? She's pretty amazing, but not--just, no."

"Oh," Phil said. "I hadn't realized."

"I can catch you up while we eat, if you want?" Clint asked, feeling unsure.

"That'd be great, Clint," Phil said, his eyes crinkling. 

Dinner was familiar and not. They'd had times, before, when one or another of them had been gone on a mission for days, weeks, or even months at a time, and they'd hung out at a safe house or quarters on the helicarrier or Phil's office or one of their apartments, and, once they'd made it past the after-action reports, they'd just talked about what had happened in their lives in the time they'd missed. 

This was kind of like that, except for all the ways it wasn't. It was one-sided, for one thing: Phil hadn't done anything; he'd just been dead. And Clint was selective about what he was sharing, more so than he'd been in years. Granted, a lot of the more personal stories he'd shared with Phil had happened over their private channel on comms when he was stuck waiting for a mark, but in the year or two before Loki, they'd both become more open. 

Now, he told Phil about finding Lucky, about the Tracksuit Mafia and how he'd lost his hearing again, about the car he'd had and lost again, about how Barney had come back and left again, and Phil had made all the right noises of support and sympathy. He'd told Phil about Lucky's penchant for pizza, about Kate's brilliance, about how great his tenants were, and Phil had smiled and laughed at the appropriate places. 

He did not tell Phil about the months of SHIELD-mandated therapy, about the times he'd drunk himself into a stupor (but never with Phil's beer), about cheating on Jess, about the nightmares where he killed Phil or watched him die, about his occasional wish he was back in Loki's control, where everything made sense and nothing hurt. 

Phil probably knew most of it anyway, just by filling in the spaces Clint left blank and watching him with those eyes of his. Clint saw better at a distance, but Phil had always seen better up close.

By the time he finished speaking, his voice was hoarse from all he'd said and all he hadn't. He and Phil were sipping at the coffee Phil had made after dinner, a simple act that was so familiar it hurt. Phil studied him over the rim of his coffee cup for a moment, then nodded decisively and took Clint's from his hand and put both cups on the coffee table. 

"Come here a sec," he said, standing up and offering Clint a hand.

Clint took it; why wouldn't he? He'd take anything Phil had to give, including the hug that followed the hand up. 

It was a good hug. The first time Clint had hugged Phil, back when he was still Coulson, Phil had stiffened and patted him tentatively on the back. "What was that for, Barton?" he'd asked when Clint had stepped back, shame-faced. 

"Thanks," he mumbled. "For coming back for me." He'd been more than a little loopy from the combined effects of a concussion and some interrogation drugs, or he probably never would've dared to touch Coulson, but he'd just been so god-damned _grateful_ that he couldn't help himself.

"I will always come back for you, Agent Barton," Phil had said, and he always had, until he couldn't.

Phil had gotten a lot better at hugs since then, and Clint let himself sink into it, into the softness of Phil's black sweater, the scent of his shampoo, the reality of his miraculous presence. 

"I'm sorry," Phil said into his ear. 

Clint backed off just enough to see his face. "What the fuck do you have to be sorry for?" he asked. "I'm the one who--"

"No," Phil said, putting his hand on Clint's face. "No, Clint, don't say it. That power-mad so-called god _took you,_ and I couldn't do anything about it, or about what you've gone through since then, and I'm _sorry."_

"Not your fault," Clint said. "You were--you tried, I know; you went up against that asshole by yourself, and you, you _died,_ Phil. You died."

"I know," Phil said, pulling him close. "I'm sorry." He paused for a moment, breathing in and out slowly. "When it happened…when I shot Loki, I was just hoping it would knock him out of your head. If I had to die to achieve that, I was okay with it."

"Well, I wasn't," Clint retorted, his words somewhat muffled by Phil's sweater. "Okay with it, I mean. Not that I knew about it until later."

"Clint," Phil said, squeezing him tightly, a wealth of emotion packed into his name that Clint couldn't decipher--or maybe he was too scared to try.

Phil stepped back after a moment, taking both of Clint's hands in his. "Can we sit?"

Clint nodded dumbly, following Phil back to the couch. It felt like they'd stood there, hugging, forever, but the couch cushions were still warm. So were his hands, which Phil was still holding. There was something spooling between them, had been since Phil walked in the door, and Clint was starting to hope it was a good something, the best something, as much as that hope terrified him.

"I don't really remember what happened when Goose took me," Phil said, looking down at their hands. "It's like a dream. But she knew, somehow, the only place I wanted to go. I'll never know why she chose to make me a cat first, or to leave me out in the rain--although at least that got rid of the slime." 

"I thought," Clint started, "Thor said…"

"What did Thor say?" 

"That she brought you to me because she knew how I felt." Clint looked up for a moment, defiantly; this was probably when Phil was going to leave, but maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't. 

"Funny, I thought it was because she knew how I felt," Phil said, smiling at him. 

"How…" Clint swallowed and tried again. "How do you feel?"

"I love you." Phil shrugged and looked away. "I've loved you for years. I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable; I can leave if you want--"

"Shut up," Clint choked out, "shut up, God, Phil, just…" and kissed him. 

Some minutes later, when they broke for air, he said, "I love you, too."

"Yeah?" Phil said.

"Yeah."

They didn't do anything but make-out for a while on the couch that night, but when it was time for bed, Phil followed Clint up the stairs without hesitation, and Clint slept sounder than he had in months, maybe years. When they woke up the next morning, Goose was sleeping peacefully between their legs.

**Two months later**

"Holy shit," Clint said faintly. Phil stood 50 feet in front of him, his hand to his mouth, looking pale and a little queasy.

"Did you know he could do that, Katniss?" Tony asked as he landed next to Clint.

" _I_ didn't know I could do that, Stark," Phil said. 

"I thought you said there was a bomb," Steve said as he came running up.

"There was," Clint said, "but Phil ate it." He jogged over to Phil and put a cautious hand on his arm. "You okay, babe?"

Phil laughed disbelievingly. "I think so." His color was improving. "I didn't know I could do that."

"Guess Goose did a little more than turn you into a cat, huh?"

"Guess so," Phil said, leaning into him. 

**Three months after that**

They didn't use the apartment at Avengers Tower very often at first, but Phil had complained that the closet space in the loft was a bit…lacking, so more and more of his suits had migrated there. And Clint had to admit that the shower was _glorious._ The bed was huge and extremely comfortable, and while Clint never really cared about kitchen space, he also had to admit that the top of the line appliances and enormous island made Phil very happy. 

Clint stepped out of the bathroom after his post-move shower and went looking for Phil. He'd been forced to shower alone, since Phil was still organizing their things--meaning, trying to figure out where to place all his precious collectables so that he could have them easily at hand without making Steve turn red every time he came to visit--but maybe seeing him in nothing but a towel would convince Phil to put off his organizing for activities that they could _both_ enjoy.

"Babe?" he called out.

"In here."

There was something off about Phil's voice, so Clint tightened the towel around his waist and grabbed one of the guns from under the couch cushion. 

Phil was in the guest room, as expected. The closet door was open, and Goose was there, but she wasn't the only thing there, and Clint wasn't talking about Phil's collectables.

"…what?" 

Goose meowed proudly.

"Eggs," Clint said eventually. "Are those eggs?"

Phil nodded. He looked a little like he had the first time he'd manifested his tentacles. "Thor said that flerkens lay eggs."

"He also said it was very rare," Clint pointed out. "Jesus, how many eggs can one flerken lay?"

"I'm not sure I can see all of them, but I counted 89," Phil said. "JARVIS?"

"There are 97 eggs," JARVIS answered. "They appeared eleven minutes ago. Judging by the movement I can detect in them, they will hatch in approximately 71 minutes."

"Holy shit," Phil said.

END

**Author's Note:**

> About six months ago I realized I had never written a story where Phil or Clint was transformed into an animal or a kid or something like that, and that there weren't a lot of stories where one or the other had been transformed into a cat. I started a story, then stalled out. Then I saw Captain Marvel and realized I simply _must_ include Goose. Then I saw Endgame and felt even more nostalgic for those days just post Avengers when the world was full of possibilities, when AO3 was full of stories where they all lived in the tower and none of the weird canon shit that followed existed yet. 
> 
> A few months after that, I finally opened up the document again. That was a little over a week (and more than 7000 words) ago. 
> 
> As usual when it's me, I do have some ideas for a sequel, but who knows if I'll ever write it. After all, I have a few other sequels to work on, including my professional stuff.
> 
> Title etc. from Al Stewart's Year of the Cat.
> 
> You can follow me at Twitter & Tumblr, fannish (shellumbo) and pro (sbyzmcpherson), same user names for both.


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